


The Etiquette of Dying

by CreativeWords



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Mycroft Being Mycroft, even his death is neat and orderly, unexpected death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 12:14:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreativeWords/pseuds/CreativeWords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drabble fic in which Mycroft is unexpectedly shot. </p><p>In response to a Tumblr post suggesting Mycroft's death should feature his brolly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Etiquette of Dying

It was a pity about the waistcoat.

The bullet had ripped an unsightly hole in the left breast. That, of course, was of little consequence compared to the garish bloodstain spreading around it. The pain would no doubt begin any moment now.

Too slow. A first for him. He lowered his umbrella to the pavement, clicking the miniature gun back into the tip and letting the instrument take his weight. The cretin he’d been aiming for had avoided the bullet. Unlike him.

Ah, there was the pain. Excruciating, if he had to put a word to it. Blinding. Well, that wasn’t quite true. He could still see Sherlock, staring at him with a look akin to the day he was six and he’d seen Father strike Mycroft off his feet. As if the ground had tilted beneath his feet.

Had it? The sensation of being upright was illusory at best at this point. Hands were grasping his arm. John, no doubt. Ever the combat-trained medic. He knew, he had to know, that Mycroft was past any help he could provide.

"Easy, there, Mycroft," John said, his voice hoarse somehow. He was taking Mycroft’s weight, a fact he would apologize for if he had command of his voice. Never mind that now. It was possible that the etiquette of dying allowed for a lapse. His arms were already heavy. As John eased him backward, his benumbed fingers lost contact with his brolly. He heard it clatter to the pavement. And there was Sherlock, filling what was left of his vision, still six years old.

_It’s alright. It’s not as bad as you think. Don’t be a fool, Sherlock._

Easier to say as a 13-year-old nursing a bruise. As a 48-year-old bleeding over Westwood suit, words were beyond him. He blinked, tried to muster sound…

The brolly rolled several feet in the wind, unnoticed, for perhaps the first time in living memory, by its owner. His brother was likewise blind. John Watson eased out from under Mycroft’s body, leaving Sherlock to crouch beside it, still staring, and collected the umbrella from the gutter. It wasn’t right to leave it there. Mycroft wouldn’t approve.


End file.
